Page 62 of Just Don't Call Me Yours

“What’s with you lately?” Matt asks.

I’ve been glaring at Margot’s phone for longer than I should. “What do you mean?”

He frowns. “You seem off. Whatever happened with your dad on Thanksgiving, and then Margot . . . I don’t know. I just feel like there’s stuff you’re not telling me.”

He’s right. The guilt of keeping things from him has been weighing on me lately, and that was before I ever slept with Margot. Sitting up, I rest my elbows on my knees and level with him. “My dad is cutting me off.”

Matt’s eyes widen for the second time tonight. “What the hell? Why?”

My knee bounces, but I force it to stop. “American Thieves will open for some of Sidecar’s shows starting January.”

He blinks. “You’re going on tour?”

Without saying anything, I nod. Matt knows what this means. I don’t have to spell it out for him. I wring my hands together as I brace myself. Will he be disappointed? Will he stress about getting a new roommate? Does he regret living with me?

“Dude!”

Matt’s voice nearly makes me jump.

“You’re going on tour!” he practically cheers. “You’re actually doing this!”

It’s impossible to bite back my smile. “Seems like it.”

“And your dad . . .?” he adds as a cautionary question.

My smile fades, and I shake my head.

“Shit.”

He looks at me for a long moment, and I know he’s about to comment on our living arrangement. He has to be piecing together the fact that I’m leaving him in a shitty position with no roommate. The biggest fight Matt and I ever had was when he let me wear his favorite LSU jersey when we were fourteen, and I spilled Spaghetti Os on it.

I’d say this is worse.

“Fuck him.”

I force a laugh. “What?”

“Fuck him,” Matt says again with a shrug. “You’re going on tour! College will always be here if you need it.”

Now I’m the one who can’t wipe the grin off my face, relief flooding through me. He’s not mad. He doesn’t even care that I’m leaving him to chase what I want. “Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “I guess you’re right.”

His support only makes me want to tell him about Margot that much more. Partly because I’m curious what he might think about it, but mostly because his unwavering support has my guilt skyrocketing. Why would I keep anything from him?

I’m alone in the common room, trying and failing to write a song when I spot Margot coming out of the elevator. She’s getting back from class, I guess.

She looks tired.

And not in the good—I’ve just had the best sex of my life—kind of way. She looks exhausted like today has worn her down, bit by bit.

“Hey,” she says, plopping down on the other end of the couch.

I’m still holding my guitar, but I stop playing and take a closer look at her. “Are you okay?” I ask, and I’m surprised by how much I want to know the answer.

She blinks, looking over at me with a similar sense of surprise. “Yeah,” she says with a nod. “Hey, you have my phone, right?”

I nod, pulling it from the pocket of my hoodie and handing it to her. “You might not want it. Keith is a piece of work.”

Her brows furrow as she takes the phone from my hand. Since she’s been gone, he’s texted her eight times. Sometimes he’s mad, other times he’s apologizing for getting mad. It’s an endless cycle of nonsense that no one should have to deal with.

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